


A Favor for Gloriana - This Is What Becomes of Us

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Gloriana'Verse [7]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Blowjobs, Comfort Porn, Domesticity, Homosexuality, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, bathing porn, illness recovery, shaving porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An immediate sequel to the Gloriana’verse story, <a href="http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/405958.html"> At the Candlemark Past Midnight. </a></p><p>Over a sennight has passed since Neal’s terrible fever broke. He’s weak, but he urgently needs to bathe. His master, Peter Burke, cares for him most intimately. Some of the most shameless comfort porn I’ve ever written. There’s bathing and shaving and blowjobs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Favor for Gloriana - This Is What Becomes of Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kanarek13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarek13/gifts).



Neal couldn’t stand himself any more. He smelled worse than the bank of the Thames at low tide on a hot summer’s day. His beard itched, his scalp itched, his privates itched. All those years ago, when he was stuck in the Fleet with no funds to pay for such comforts as baths, he didn’t remember being so damned uncomfortable. And back then, he’d had travelers with him, creepy crawlies that disgusted his master.

Disgusted him enough to spend his hard-earned coin on having the whores next door shave all of his body hair off. Arms and legs. Ass and cods.

Neal smiled at the memory of that warm June day, draped over his master’s big, hard body, his master’s firm hands holding his cock like it was some precious and rare object. He closed his eyes, reveling in the memory of those first sweet touches. Actually, those touches weren’t sweet. Peter had taken control of his body, holding him without care or concern for the proprieties as the whores shaved him, ridding him of the vermin. Neal hadn’t tried to hide his arousal, he wasn’t ashamed of it. His cock’s reaction was as natural as breathing, as far as he was concerned. A warm, firm palm, strong fingers, a hand that knew what it was doing – that’s all that mattered.

Bent over Peter as Peter spread his ass cheeks for Mistress Diana’s razor, Neal had felt the other man’s cock growing hard, and if it wasn’t for the danger of getting his cods sliced to ribbons, he might have rutted against it.

Instead, he’d waited for the whores to take their leave before exploring his feelings for Master Burke. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. He’d been fascinated by the man for a few years and grabbed every opportunity he could to be in his company. That was the first time, though, that he’d taken the liberty of fucking his fist with Peter Burke as the object of his sexual desire.

Neal closed his eyes and tried to summon the feeling of warmth and sunlight, the way the trees in the arbor shivered in the breeze, the feel of his newly hairless balls in the palm of his hands. The sensation came easily, but so did the realization that he still stank.

He groaned in frustration. Over the past four years, he’d become far too accustomed to the niceties of frequent bathing. Despite the Queen’s command, many of the men and women of Elizabeth Regina’s court bathed as infrequently as possible, but his master, Lord Peter Burke, had strict standards for his household. One bath per month _minimum_ , but more often was never a problem. Master Peter himself bathed once a day in the summertime and no less than twice a week in the winter. Neal did the same.

Which was why, after three nights of terrible, fevered sickness and another ten days spent recovering in his bed, Neal was heartily sick of his own personal stench.

A sennight and three it might be since his fever broke, but he was still as weak as a newborn pup, needing help for the most basic of tasks, like getting from the bed to the chamber pot. That journey, no more than a dozen steps across the room and back, left him shaky, sweating and barely able to stand upright.

Maybe tonight it would be better. After all, he’d done nothing more strenuous all day than take a piss. If he could get across the small bedchamber to the washstand, he could rid himself of some of this miasma.

Neal took a deep breath and levered himself upright against the mattress. There, he was sitting. Another deep breath and he swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He’d needed a stool to climb into high tester bed in Peter’s room, but his own bed was not so grand and he was able to place his feet flat on the floor.

Getting into a standing position was a little more difficult and Neal wondered why he was being so stubborn. His master had left a small brass bell on the table next to the bed and instructed him to use it to summon help.

But Neal didn’t want help. He wanted to care for himself like he was accustomed to. The sooner he recovered, the sooner he could get back to the natural order of things, which was caring for his master. Seeing to _his_ needs, _his_ desires. Not this backwards existence where everyone in the Burke household was caring for Neal Caffrey, quondam thief and forger, and forevermore the indentured servant of Sir Peter Burke, Baron of Carlisle.

The stone was rough and cold against his feet. It actually hurt to walk, but Neal was not going to be put off by some incidental pain. He kept his goal in sight – the wash stand was only five steps away.

 _One._ He clung to the post at the corner of the bed.

 _Two._ He let go but grabbed the edge of the table beside the bed.

 _Three._ The table still provided good support.

 _Four._ Alas, no table, but there was a sturdy wall to cling to.

 _Five._ He reached the end of his journey, unaided and triumphant.

Sadly, he did not consider how he was going to stay upright while he washed himself. Maybe he could wet a cloth and take it back to bed with him. Neal managed to lift the small washcloth and place it into the basin, ignoring how he was panting and sweating from such a minor effort. The bigger mistake was his failure to calculate the weight of the stoneware pitcher filled with water.

 _Damn_ , but he couldn’t pick it up with one hand. Without thinking, he let go of the wash stand and wrapped both hands around the pitcher handle and lifted it.

Except that it slipped right out of his grip and went crashing to the floor, breaking into a thousand pieces. Neal tried to cling to the wash stand, except that it was a flimsy piece of furniture, not made to support the weight of a grown man, no matter how debilitated.

That too went crashing down, the basin shattering alongside the pitcher. Neal flung himself forward, grasping at the wall, desperate to find balance before joining the knifelike shards of pottery on the floor. He whimpered, shamed and frightened, unable to move.

At least the household wasn’t empty. Blake, the lad that Peter had hired as an assistant to the aging Hughes, came rushing in.

“Master Neal, what are you doing?” The boy took one look at the mess on the floor and told him not to move.

“That might be a problem. I don’t know if I can stand much longer.” Neal figured that he could slide down to the floor, keeping out of the way of the water and murdered pottery as much as possible.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to do that. A few heartbeats later, his master burst into the room, assessed the damage and without a single word, strode across the room. He picked Neal up and carried him out of the room, uncaring of his boots as he stepped on the broken pieces of the pitcher and basin.

It should have been humiliating, but Neal didn’t really have the strength left to be humiliated. Perversely, he shouldn’t have had the strength to be thrilled to be carried off like some war prize, but he was.

Peter was silent as he took Neal to his own bedchamber, the room which Neal ordinarly occupied. It was a fine room with fine furnishings. He’d slept there, regaining his health, until a few nights ago, when his master stumbled wearily into the room, only to turn around and go into Neal’s own quarters and slept there.

The next morning, Neal insisted that he return to his own bed. He rarely told falsehoods to his master, and only when his master was too stubborn to deal with the truth. So he said that right now, since his master refused to share this bed while Neal was recovering his heath, he would prefer the smaller chamber with the smaller, lower bed. It was too difficult to climb up and down from that mattress, as high off the floor as the eye of a Highland pony, just to take a piss.

It wasn’t precisely a lie since he truly couldn’t manage without assistance, but the truth was that his master needed his own bed. He was tired and worn out from caring for Neal and sleeping in the smaller bed wasn’t affording him the rest he needed.

Now, Peter deposited him not in the bed, but in a chair next to the fireplace. He wrapped a blanket around him, made certain he was comfortable, stoked the fire, and added a log or two before turning back to him and giving vent to his temper.

“What, in the name of God’s own balls, were you thinking, Neal?” Peter stood there, hands on his hips, a look of doom on his face.

Despite his exhaustion, Neal refused to be cowed. “I stank. I stink. I wanted to wash myself.” He raised his chin in defiance. The gesture was ruined when he pulled an arm out from under the blanket and scratched first his scalp, then his hairy chin. Then his armpit. Unfortunately, that last movement had the side effect of circulating his foul odor.

Peter’s nose twitched and Neal could see him fight against taking a step back. “And you didn’t think about ringing that bell and waiting for someone to come? For _me_ to come and help you?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. You’ve not stopped caring for me for nearly a fortnight. I am _your_ servant. I should be caring for you.” Neal hated the thread of truculent whine in his voice. He wasn’t Peter’s body servant, but he took such joy, such pleasure in intimately caring for his master.

At that, Peter’s anger seemed to soften. “God and his angels willing, you will have many years to care for me. For now, let me take care of you. Please?”

Neal couldn’t deny his master anything. He nodded and gave in, trying to be gracious about it. “If it is your desire.”

“It is most heartedly my desire.” Peter smiled at him and it felt like the sun had just risen. It was a foolish thing, but Neal often felt that way about his master’s smiles. They warmed him; they made him happy; they made him greedy and reckless to get more of them. “Now, about your ill-fated decision to wash yourself…”

Neal bit his lip and looked at his master from under his lashes. “Yes, and I am sorry for breaking the basin and the pitcher. I should be punished for that …” As weak and as malodorous as he was, he couldn’t stop himself from giving Peter a very private, very naughty look.

Peter gave a shout of laughter. “You are incorrigible, Neal. Utterly incorrigible. Whatever will I do with you?”

“Spank me?”

Peter laughed again. “For such a minor infraction?” Then he turned serious. “No, Neal – that is not anything worthy of punishment. But perhaps you should be punished for causing me such anxiety.”

Neal’s heart sank. That was the last thing he wished for, but it seemed – without fail – that he was forever destined to cause such grief to his master.

“Ah, Neal – don’t despair. Such games are best saved when you are well and able to enjoy them fully.” Peter’s look softened and his good humor seemed restored. “I was about to say before you started flirting with me that you _do_ need a bath. I was going to suggest that you take one tomorrow morning. But I don’t think either of us can wait.”

Neal was thrilled that cleanliness was imminent, but he wasn’t sure what his master meant by that last statement.

Peter seemed to understand his confusion. “You’re not going back to your room. You’re well enough to get yourself into mischief if I’m not there to watch over you. And while my bed is quite large, it doesn’t have room for you, for me, and for your …” Peter grinned and simply said, “stench.”

Neal chuckled. “Alas, insulted by the truth.”

Peter asked, for no seemingly logical reason, “Can I trust you?”

“Master?”

“Can I trust you to stay where you are, not to move until I come back?”

Neal was still puzzled, but he agreed. He was warm and comfortable and frankly couldn’t get to his feet if the room was afire.

Peter nodded and left the room. Neal leaned back, both exhausted and energized. Whatever his master was arranging was hopefully going to involve lots of hot water and if he was truly lucky, a nice sharp razor to clean off the itchiness on his chin.

In truth, Neal was a vain man and while his hair remained dark and thick and curly as any youth’s, his whiskers were those of a much older fellow, as they grew in streaked and peppered with gray. He didn’t find it at all handsome or distinguishing, as his master claimed it was.

He closed his eyes, lulled by the warmth of the flames and the flickering shadows they cast across the room. He might have even dozed, dreaming a little of how pleasurable it was going to be to be sleeping in his master’s arms again, to use his master’s strong shoulder as a pillow. He’d missed that.

A clatter against the door roused him from that doze and to his astonishment, Peter and Blake were hefting the large copper bathtub through the doorway and into the room. It normally resided in the kitchen, the warmest room in the mansion, and all members of the household used it, from his master to the lowliest scullery maid.

Before joining the household, Neal had never seen a bathing tub that big – it was large enough to hold a full grown man comfortably. It had actually been his introduction into the Burke household five years ago. He’d been scrubbed until his skin was raw in an old wooden barrel before Abbess Diana and her compatriot Lauren had come to shave his body hair off. When that was done, and only then, Master Peter allowed him into the house and had him bathe again, in this very tub.

He had shaved him then, too. Peter’s big strong hands holding his face still, his skin taut, as he scraped a razor through his scraggly beard. Hopefully, Peter would do the same again to him tonight.

Peter and Blake set the tub down near him, as close as possible to the fire. Hughes and two scullery maids came in with buckets of steaming water and filled the tub. The servants left and so did his master, but not before he gave him an admonishing glare, reminding him that he was to stay put.

Peter and Blake and Hughes came back with more buckets of water, and at last the tub was filled and a few extra set aside by the fire. Neal watched his master give each man a few coins and instructed them not to disturb him until morning.

Neal couldn’t help but smile. The servants of the household knew full well what he and his master got up to in that bed. But they didn’t seem to care. It never surprised Neal that the members of the household gave their utter loyalty to Peter, but they seemed to accept him as Peter’s bedmate without censure. There was never a word to him, never an askance look, nor any foulness by any member of the household to him.

They could be hanged for their sinful congress; except that Neal would defy anyone to call the love they shared a sin.

“The water is getting cold, do you still wish to bathe or not?” Peter’s wry tone interrupted his difficult musings.

“After all the effort you went to, I would be an ungrateful cur if I didn’t.” Neal pushed down the blanket and tried to stifle a shiver.

He didn’t do such a good job. Peter glared at him and looked like he was about to rescind the offer.

“Please – I will feel so much better without the burden of this stench.”

His master relented. With a sigh of resignation, he helped Neal to his feet, quickly stripped off the foul linen nightshirt and picked him up again, carrying him like a bride for the few steps to the waiting tub.

The water was hot, but not scalding. Still, it was a bit of a shock on his tender flesh and he hissed as Peter lowered him into the bath.

“All is well?”

Neal slowly unclenched his muscles and relaxed into the heat, eyes closing. “Mmm.” The bathtub was a clever piece of copperwork, one side was high and sloped, perfectly proportioned for resting one’s back against it in hedonistic comfort.

“Shall I wash you?”

Neal opened one eye – it was too much effort to open both – and glanced at his master. Peter had stripped off his leather vest and was loosing the ties on his shirtsleeves. He forced his other eye open because it had been far too long, at least a sennight, since he’d seen Peter’s naked chest. And arms. And belly. He couldn’t stop a moan of pleasure from escaping his lips.

“Neal?” Peter was wearing that concerned frown again.

“I’m fine. Just appreciating my master’s … gifts.”

Peter froze, then finished pulling his shirt off. “You like what you see?”

“Very much. Oh, very much.”

Peter’s laugh was deep, like the chuffing noise made by the lions in the Royal Menagerie before they roared. Neal loved that sound.

“Hmmm, you must be feeling better, Caffrey.”

 _Caffrey ..._ Incredibly, unbelievably, Neal’s cock gave a twitch at those two syllables. When his master called him by his family name, in the low tone, it was as good as given that he’d get a cockstand. But now, it felt like a miracle, especially caught up in the enervating effects of the hot water and barely strong enough to stand on his own two feet.

“Don’t move.” Peter commanded before disappearing from Neal’s view.

“Where would I go?” he murmured, almost to himself.

Peter came back, holding a small washcloth and a ball of fine milled soap – the expensive French kind that Neal occasionally procured from a shop near Whitehall. Peter soaked the cloth in the bathwater and rubbed it against the soap. The rich scent of lavender filled Neal’s nostrils and he sighed in pleasure.

The pleasure only increased when Peter ran that soapy cloth over Neal’s arm, taking care with his inner elbows, his armpits, across his chest. His master’s touch was firm but gentle, and Neal felt like he was as close to Heaven as he’d ever get.

Or maybe that was yet to come as Peter swabbed the cloth against the soap again before commanding him to lean forward. Neal obeyed, pulling up his knees and rested his chin against him. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as Peter worked the cloth against his back in tender circles. It felt so good, _he_ felt so good. So cherished and loved.

“Lean back.”

Peter circled around and lifted his ankle out of the tub and made swift work of washing his legs and feet before plunging them back into the water. “Before I wash your hair, there’s just one part of you left to take care of.”

Neal could have sworn that Peter’s eyes glinted with wickedness. He relaxed a little further, sinking into the tub up to his chin. Beneath the now-cloudy water, he parted his thighs.

Peter draped the washcloth over the edge of the tub and picked up the soap, working up a lather between his hands. The soap was set aside and Peter took up a position behind him, trailing his hands across Neal’s chest, his thumbs skirting against his sensitive nipples. Neal gasped as they tightened; the sensation was almost too good, too much.

“Neal?” There was concern in Peter’s voice, but also satisfaction and pleasure.

“I’m fine … Master.” Neal drew out that last word as Peter’s hands glided down his torso. Fingers toyed a little with his navel, then his pubes. His body took such joy in the caress. He moaned as his cock twitched again, but he was disappointed as physical arousal gave way to the debilitated condition of his body.

“Neal, I thought you wanted to be made clean?” Peter, that bastard, knew just what he was doing to him.

“I do – but …” His voice trailed off into a whine as Peter’s hands encircled his cock, stroking the loose skin back and forth, teasing around the head. His hips rose of their own volition and the bathwater sloshed, almost swamping over the edge of the tub.

“Shh, Caffrey. You need to be still.” His master was enjoying this torment way too much. Those clever fingers were playing with his cods, with the smooth skin behind them, and then finally his hole.

He shivered despite the heat of the bathwater and the flames in the fireplace. He shivered from desire and the frustration that he could do nothing about it.

To his regret and relief, Peter withdrew his hands. “There, all clean in body – if not in mind.”

Neal wanted to smack his master, to make him pay for the torment he’d inflicted, for the teasing. Instead, he plotted an elaborate revenge, one that would bring them both great pleasure. He was distracted from that when Peter dipped a bucket into the tub, removing some of the water.

“Your hair needs to be washed and I don’t want to drown the room.”

“Ah.” That was all Neal could manage.

Peter retrieved one of the buckets waiting near the fire and slowly poured about half the contents over Neal’s head. If he thought his master’s gentle scrubbing felt good, this was surely what awaited the pure of soul at the gates of Heaven.

A delicious lassitude overtook him, much like the bliss after bed sport. He couldn’t even bestir himself to move the wet hair hanging down over his eyes. He heard Peter lathering up his hands again, taking way too long to put those hands on his scalp.

When Peter finally did, running his fingers through the wet, tangled mess of curls, Neal had to wonder what good deed he’d done to earn this entrance into Heaven. Peter’s fingers, strong and decisive, were still as gentle as ever as they rubbed the soap into his hair. “Keep your eyes closed,” Peter instructed.

Neal, as always – or at least when it was truly important – obeyed Peter’s direct commands. Obedience was wisdom in this case as lather dripped down his cheeks, onto his shoulders, through his beard.

Peter kept running his fingers over his scalp, doing his best to work out the knots that had formed during his bed rest. He groaned when Peter’s hands withdrew.

Peter commanded again, “Your eyes stay closed.”

Neal held his breath as the rest of the water cascaded over his head, rinsing away the soap. For the third time, his master ordered him to keep his eyes closed and Neal sat patiently as more water was poured over him. At last, his master wiped his face, cleaning away the soap.

“It’s all right; you can open your eyes now.”

Neal blinked and gazed at Peter, shirtless, beautiful Peter, whose skin was slick with water. A bead of liquid decorated one nipple and Neal mourned the loss of his strength – he would have paid a king’s ransom to get up from this tub and lick off that drop of water.

Peter interrupted his musings. “Shall I shave you tonight, or do you want to wait for the morrow?”

One of Neal’s fondest memories was of the first time that Peter took a razor to his throat, and he didn’t see any reason to delay this treat. After all, he was a weak invalid and his hands shook too much. Peter would be shaving him for many days to come.

Neal gave his master his sweetest smile. “I think that I would rest easiest with this mess off of my face.”

Peter’s lips quirked. He knew better than to be deceived by any of Neal’s smiles. He also knew how much Neal enjoyed it when Peter barbered him.

In a manner of very few moments, Peter retrieved his razor and strop and the small brush and cup used to make lather. As he stropped the edge of the blade, he said, “I think, with your long soak in the tub and the head washing, I don’t need to soften your beard with a hot cloth.

Neal leaned back again and Peter went to work on him for the last time, lathering his beard before dragging the razor through it, taking utmost care not to nick him or damage his probably too-tender skin.

He found himself drifting off to sleep, the sound of blade against beard and Peter’s low humming better than a cup of mulled wine.

“There, all finished.”

Neal couldn’t find the strength to open his eyes and wondered how he’d have the strength to climb out of the tub.

“You can’t sleep in there, Neal. The water’s getting cold.”

As soon as Peter uttered that word, Neal realized the truth of it. The water had lost all of its lovely heat and he shivered.

“Damn – I’ve got to get you out of there before you catch another fever.”

Neal opened his eyes at the urgency in Peter’s voice. “I can get up.”

“No, you can’t. You’ll fall and hurt yourself and it will be worse than before. Just stay there, don’t move.”

Neal sighed. His master was very good at giving orders tonight.

He watched as Peter opened a trunk and pulled out a garment he’d never seen before. Peter brought it over and laid it across the chair that he’d deposited Neal in earlier. Neal didn’t have a chance to puzzle out that garment as Peter draped a large white linen towel across his chest. Neal mourned as Peter’s beautiful flesh was hidden by the cloth.

“Can you stand up?”

Neal wanted to say, “of course” but as he gripped the sides of the tub and tried to get to his feet, he wasn’t so certain. He just hoped that Peter wouldn’t call for Blake to help lift him out.

Peter hovered, ready to help but thankfully he didn’t move to pick him up. Neal braced himself, uttered a heartfelt curse and pushed himself upwards. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub, but it didn’t matter. He was upright.

He was upright, naked, wet and cold.

“Wrap your arms around me.”

Neal wanted to jest that that was something he’d never object to, but his teeth were chattering too hard. He followed Peter’s instructions, now grateful for the warm towel that was draped across his master’s chest.

“Can you lift your leg over the edge or do you want me to pick you up?”

Neal contemplated that question for a second. “No, I think I can manage.” He clung to Peter, a veritable rock, and hoisted one leg out of the tub, finding solid ground before repeating the action.

This time, Peter didn’t stand on ceremony. He scooped Neal up again, for the third time that night, and carried him back to the chair. “Can you stand for one more moment?”

Neal was a little breathless and he just nodded.

“Good.”

Peter used the towel to wipe away most of the water, then grabbed the mysterious garment Neal had seen him take from the chest a few minutes ago. Peter shook it out and helped Neal into it. It was a robe. But not just any robe: it was one fit for a king.

The color alone, a deep indigo, was enough to beggar a man. But the fabrics – quilted velvet and silk with a deep fur collar – were things that Neal had only dreamed of. Yes, he possessed many fine items of apparel and he enjoyed wearing them, but this was beyond anything he’d ever expected to own.

“Master?”

“Hush, Neal.” Peter pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead before taking up another towel to dry his hair.

“This – ” Neal ran his hand down the lapel, savoring the plush fur. “This is far too extravagant.”

“Hmmm, that is not for you to say.”

“Master – ”

Peter stepped back, a slight look of hurt on his face. “Do you not like it?”

“It’s magnificent and I love it, but it’s too much.”

“It’s what you deserve.”

Neal could remember the time when the household subsisted from Quarter Day to Quarter Day, barely surviving on the grudging largess of Peter’s hated father-in-law. He knew that Peter had long since stopped accepting those funds; the income from the estate granted to his master by the Queen more than made up for that. But this garment was an extravagance that seemed entirely out of his master’s frugal character.

Peter knelt as his feet and started drying his legs, his thighs, and his groin. The hand under the towel teased at his manhood and to Neal’s delight, his cock began to respond.

His master, though, didn’t seem to notice. “I invested some funds with Hawkins. The investment was returned a thousandfold.” Peter looked up at him, his face drawn into the most serious of lines. “I am a wealthy man now.”

It didn’t matter to Neal whether his master was wealthy or not, as long as they were together. Still, a tiny bit of fear clutched at his heart. Did this news mean that Peter would renew his relationship with his lady wife?

Apparently not. “I can afford to give you a few luxuries, Neal. This was to be your Yuletide gift.” Peter’s lips curled in a smile. “I thought it best to put it to use now. I’ll think of something else to give you for Yuletide.”

Neal swallowed, emotions clogging his throat painfully. “Thank you, Peter. Thank you for this.” _For everything._

“And now, I think, to bed.”

Peter made a move to scoop him up again, but this time, Neal resisted. “Please, let me walk. I will never regain my strength if I don’t.”

“Very well.” Peter sighed and helped him to his feet.

Neal wasn’t foolish – he knew that the journey across the room was going to be as difficult as navigating the Channel in a storm. But he was determined to make it to the bed under his own power, even if that power was augmented by Peter’s strong arms and shoulder.

The floor was cold and rough against his feet once he stepped off the rug. Looking across the room, he calculated it was at least ten steps to the bed. He could do this. He was clean, shaven, wearing the most glorious bed robe in all of Britain. Of certain he could make it.

By the fourth step, he was breathing heavily and his feet and thighs ached from the unaccustomed exercise. He was determined, though. Another three steps and he was more than halfway across the room. Two more, and his feet were on the rug in front of the bed. Peter, whether giving into his own need to take control or realizing that Neal was at the very end of his strength, picked him up and set him on the mattress.

Neal sat there, catching his breath, not only grateful to be off his feet, but to be back in the place he belonged.

Peter stepped back, hands on his hips. “Can I trust you to stay put?”

“Why do you keep asking me that, Master?” He responded with pert attitude.

“Because I know you, Neal. You’re like a cat. You don’t understand the concept of ‘heel’ or ‘stay.’ You go where you will, leaving chaos in your wake.”

Neal wanted to argue that the comparison wasn’t a fair one, and these days, he only went where his master directed him to go, unless … Fair enough, considering the events that preceded this evening’s bath. He was about to respond when an enormous yawn forced its way up from his toes.

“No, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere until morning.” Peter cupped his cheek, a tender gesture. “I will be back in a few moments.”

Neal gave into his exhaustion and stretched out on the bed, warm and clean and hoping that Peter wouldn’t be too long. He was so very sleepy.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The morning light seeping through a gap in the bed curtains was a hot brand across his face and Neal rolled over, trying to escape it. Only to encounter the living fireplace that was his master. Winter or summer, when they slept in the same bed, he had no need for nightclothes or heavy blankets to keep him warm. Peter simply radiated heat.

“Where are you going, Caffrey?”

“Hmmm, nowhere.” He wasn’t.

“Good.” Peter tucked him under his arm and Neal relaxed again.

He had the vaguest memory of Peter removing the robe and pulling the covers over him. He’d been cold and restless until the other man joined him in bed, instantly relaxing as Peter’s body heat warmed him, as Peter’s presence eased him.

“How are you feeling?”

Neal couldn’t quite test his strength from this position, but he seemed to feel better and said so. He was not quite as muzzy-headed as he’d been when he’d woken other mornings since his fever broke. He stretched just a bit and realized that for the first time in days, he’d woken in a naturally virile condition. His prick was hard, achingly so, and not because of a full bladder. As his cock bumped against Peter’s hip, he smiled and said, “Better.”

Peter rocked back against him and chuckled. “Certainly seems that way.” His lips caressed Neal’s cheek; the scratchiness of his whiskers was a delicious pain.

Neal tilted his face upwards to catch those lips, not caring about the staleness of his breath or Peter’s. It felt like years since they’d kissed. Oh, Peter had kissed him innumerable times over the past sennight – his cheek, his forehead, and yes, even his lips – but never with anything more than deep fondness and almost parental concern. Or love, but not the love that they shared before his illness. This was the first time that they touched as men.

Neal kissed Peter, pouring out his love, his longing, his need, all the feelings he’d kept pent up and been unable to express. Peter kissed him back, his lips unusually gentle. Neal nipped his lip and broke the kiss.

He reassured Peter, “I won’t break.”

Peter didn’t answer right away and Neal leaned up on one arm, trying to read his lover’s face. The bed curtains were still mostly drawn and the bar of light that had woken Neal from his slumber had already moved away, leaving the space in deep shadow.

“Peter – I promise, I’m all right. I want this, I need this.”

“Neal, I don’t know… ”

Neal didn’t want to hear the reluctance in Peter’s voice and he rubbed himself against him again. “Please, I need _you_.”

Peter sat up and reached out, opening the bed curtains. Neal blinked as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Peter’s expression was grave, and in the sharp morning light, he could the lines of care and worry etched into his face.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to do anything that would put you in jeopardy, to compromise your well-being.” Peter stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers. “I sometimes dream that you are no longer here, that you died and I’m alone.”

Neal closed his eyes against the sudden rush of tears. He’d had those same fears not so long ago, when Peter had been locked in the Tower awaiting his fate after Pratt had been found dead, Peter’s own dagger buried in his chest. He’d done everything he could, and then some, to bring the real murderer to justice and he didn’t like to think how close Peter had come to the headsman’s axe. He flung himself forward and wrapped his arms around Peter. “I’m not going anywhere. Every day, I grow stronger.”

He rested his head against Peter’s chest, enjoying the heat of his skin, the steady beat of his heart.

“Love me, Peter.”

“Of that, there’s no doubt.” Peter held him, his hands stroking his shoulders before trailing down his back, coming to rest on his hips. He maneuvered them so that Neal was lying flat on the bed, Peter leaning over him.

“You will let me do the work, then. You won’t strain yourself.”

“Work, Master? You consider this work? Should I give you my hard-earned coin in exchange?”

“Don’t be so cheeky, Neal. You know what I mean.” Peter kissed him, shutting him up and stealing his breath. Peter’s mouth trailed down his throat, resting for a moment in the hollow of his collar bones. His lips teased his nipples, biting and licking until Neal shifted restlessly against the sheets.

Peter hushed him. “You must stay very quiet. You’ve been ill and you cannot exert yourself.”

“I’ll try.”

“You’d better do more than try.”

Neal honestly couldn’t tell if his master was speaking in jest, but then he didn’t care as those lips continued their torturously slow exploration of his body.

He couldn’t restrain a shout of joy, of triumph, of pure pleasure when Peter took the tip of his cock into his mouth. But only for a moment.

“Hush. Remember my instructions…”

Neal closed his eyes, willing himself into obedience.

He breathed over Neal’s cock. That gentle caress was powerfully arousing and his balls began to draw up. His cock was full hard, a proud arc from cods to naval and Peter’s tongue traced a narrow strip, from base to tip, and then back down.

Neal moaned as Peter worked over him, as he licked his balls, taking first one, then the other into his mouth, laving it with his tongue.

Peter’s mouth on him was so damn good and it felt like only now, with this perfect intimacy, that he was truly alive again. Neal hoped, though, that Peter took matters slowly, his control seemed like a handful of water, slipping away with each heartbeat. Peter licked him again, teasing along the big vein, under the hood, dipping into his leaking slit before engulfing the head with his mouth. It felt like he was being swallowed by a dragon, and he arched his body upwards, to complete the sacrifice.

Peter lifted his mouth from his cock and looked at him, his eyes glowing in the morning light. “Don’t move.”

“I have to move.” Neal shifted restlessly against the linens.

Peter held his hips and repeated the command. “I said, don’t move.”

Neal struggled against his master’s hold. He desperately wanted to surge up, into Peter’s mouth again. But his master’s hold was firm enough to keep him from his goal. He whimpered.

Peter didn’t laugh at his frustration. He just told him again, “Stay still. If you don’t …” He left the threat hanging.

Neal looked into Peter’s eyes, trying to ascertain the truth of that statement. It was hard to tell, the strong light had washed all nuance from Peter’s face. “Peter?” He wasn’t above pleading. He was desperate and reached out. “Don’t leave me.”

Peter smiled and relented, placing a hot kiss just above his pubes. “No, Neal – I will never leave you.”

He relaxed and relished Peter’s touch, his mouth so hotly intimate. He kept still as that mouth swallowed him again, as it took him so impossibly deep that Neal wondered how Peter could breathe. The sensation was perfect and indescribable and lasted for just an instant.

Peter let go and licked him again. In that moment, his control evaporated and the world went bright as he came. It was as if his soul, his very being was erupting out of him.

Neal shuddered with the aftershocks of his climax, as Peter licked him clean. He wanted nothing more than to give back some of the great joy that he’d been granted.

Damn, he wanted – he needed – to sleep.

Neal managed to ward off the arms of Morpheus long enough to see Peter close the bed curtains, feel him stretch out behind him and gather him close. They lay like two spoons in a box, except that spoons didn’t have hot, hard pricks. Neal tried to roll over, to reach for Peter, but Peter’s arm was as good as a wooden stock for keeping him in place.

“Hush, Neal. It’ll keep.”

Neal wanted to argue, but sleep was inexorable. His last thought before surrendering to the inevitable was _“I love you, Peter.”_

Or maybe it wasn’t merely a thought, because he might have heard his master reply, _“Not as much as I love you.”_

__

FIN


End file.
